Zombies Aren't Partial To Karaoke
by coffee-stained lips
Summary: When the students of Hollywood Arts awaken to find themselves in an apocalyptic world, they must replace microphones with guns. Because karaoke doesn't keep you alive.
1. Dawn of the Undead

**I found this was the first zombie apocalypse story for **_**Victorious**_**. I'm glad to be the first and I hope I do justice to the genre and the characters of Dan Schneider's wondrous mind. By the way, I hope no one thinks I'm a mentally insane freak with too much time on her hands (though I sorta am). And is this even an intelligent idea? Probably not; publishing a _fourth_ multi-chaptered story while the other three aren't close to finished and two haven't been updated since the Stone age. But I feel as though the time is right, and that this'll never get uploaded should I not do it now. So please read, please enjoy, and ****please forgive me if you're reading another story you want a chapter of and/or this one is as involuntarily neglected. (BTW I'm trying to construct somewhat readable chapters for my other open stories, so I'll hopefully update - hopefully).**

Trina had never strayed from the fact that she was the next Jennifer Aniston. Even early in the morning, she would replay _Friends_ episodes and repeat word for word Rachel's lines until they were permanently stuck in her head. It was such a pity that she had to be born so late, or the already marvelous success of a TV show could've been even greater. And, well, David Schwimmer could've used a real woman on his arm, too.

While the clock glowed three and the lights in every house on the block were out, Trina practiced with her dinky black-and-white set. It was strenuous work to tell whether it was Rachel or Phoebe with the gray hues of the screen but Trina—always a trouper—did her best for the sake of future producers everywhere. Though the last time she rehearsed Tori complained about the loudness, Trina knew it had to be a phase her little sister was going through. Really, in a few years Tori would be begging to see a major motion picture by the Trina Vega and all that trivial nonsense about "waking up the neighborhood" would be a distant memory.

A fierce pounding echoed at the door. Trina angrily sighed and turned up the volume on her television. Joey and Chandler couldn't overcome the sound of someone knocking against her wooden door. Trina knew Tori could get annoyed but barging in during practice was still too low.

"Not now, Tori!" she screamed. The rapping of knuckles did not cease, leading Trina to again groan in aggravation. Since her sis just couldn't let Trina do her thing, she decided to confront her before going back to her set. She whipped the door ajar swiftly, a hand on her hip. She opened her mouth to speak but her speech about privacy was thwarted by a shriek as the heinous creature before her lunged.

Tori, who had been laying in docile slumber, was awoken by her sister's screams of terror. _Not again,_ she thought in exasperation. Like every morning before Tori knew Trina would watch a _Friends_ marathon to practice her line delivery and then relax by watching a late-night (or, in this case, early-morning) horror movie screening. The first time it happened she had woken up to see her sister in bed with her, shaking and clutching the garlic necklace she prepared in the kitchen. This time Trina didn't come running but Tori knew she would soon. So, as to avoid the rush, the younger Vega lifted herself from bed and headed down the hall.

"Is it a vampire or a werewolf this time?" she asked, half-asleep, as she walked to the room of her sister. No response but another screech came. Rolling her Latin black eyes, Tori quickened her pace to Trina's doorway. She stood in it, watching as Trina bounced up and down on her bed. Another figure was there too but it was hard to make out. Tori rubbed the leftover sleep from her eyes, and then looked up to scream herself.

Her father was reaching for his firstborn, moaning ominously. But this was not the father she knew and loved, oh no; this was a man with grayed flesh torn away from his face and blood dripping from every inch of him. A great big bloody chunk was bitten out of his leg; muscle tissue was showing and the torn veins dangled like ropes of licorice—thick, bloody ropes of licorice. His rotting skin stunk up the entire room but the smell was the least of Trina's worries.

"Kill it!" she shouted, not realizing (or caring) this was their creator she spoke off, "Kill it now!" Tori spun around wildly in search of something that could slay this undead demon. Trina wasn't sporty, so bats could be ruled out. She was losing hope with every glance at the room. Nothing was—wait…a baton! Trina had tossed the baton in the corner four years ago after be denied a spot on the middle school cheerleading squad and never had the want to move it. Tori couldn't be happier at her sibling's laziness.

She ran over to the corner where the baton lay. The zombie didn't give her a second glance for he had eyes (eye sockets would be the correct term) for Trina, who obviously had more meat on her bones. It gave Tori enough time to swing the baton into the side of the animated dead body. He stumbled but didn't fall to the floor; instead he looked to Tori with hunger, groaned, and dived in for the kill. Tori was smart enough to dodge the slow-moving monster's attack and smash his skull in before he had a chance to turn around. This time he fell to the floor and didn't move again. Tori, breathing fast and her adrenaline pumping like crazy, grabbed Trina and ran out the bedroom.

"What the crud was _that_?" Trina asked. Tori didn't reply to her sister's dumb question; she merely continued pulling her along down the stairs of their home. They had to get away before something else happened. As they rounded the bend that separated family room from kitchen, another zombie popped out, its teeth bared for biting. Trina screamed again but could barely open her mouth before Tori swung and delivered a blow to the cretin's head. This time it was female and bore a terrifyingly great resemblance to their mother.

Without thinking that she may've re-killed her parents, Tori led her sister out to the garage where their white SUV was parked. One side was caked with blood and the body of another unrecognizable zombie lay beside it. Tori assumed it must've been killed by one of their parents after they met their untimely demise but made sure to run over it again once they entered the car. Not bothering to buckle up, Tori drove out into the street. She wouldn't get her license officially until next week but she guessed no one would care now that the apocalypse had occurred.

* * *

If he wasn't already dating her, Beck would've found himself very attracted to Jade by now. Not only was she pretty when reading spine-chilling novels but she was a downright babe when using his toy lightsaber to slaughter zombies. Beck had gotten over the initial shock of the apocalyptic event of zombies crawling around California; now he and Jade were using every possible weapon from his RV to cut through the mob of them as they moved near the couple with the desire to eat their living flesh. There was no time to search for the keys to his car in the mess of clothes and dirtied plates on his bedroom floor and now they were trying to run past the hordes of undead creatures to get somewhere safe.

Previous to the discovery of the swarm, Jade and Beck had been relaxing on the edge of his bed. Jade was—not surprisingly—reading a Stephen King book. Beck was listening, rapt on her ability to create different accents and accentuate their dialogue and feelings. That was what made her a terrific actress. People didn't like her attitude so they let their loathing block out her talent. Beck knew one day she'd get out of Hollywood Arts and star in a smash hit, if possible one of horror. Like, perhaps a zombie movie.

Oh, how he hated the irony.

"Hey, babe," he said, putting a hand over her page, "let's skip the _Cujo_." Jade sneered at him but he just smiled in response, expecting such a reaction. It was her way of showing affection for him and others—which is why not many liked her. They couldn't understand if she liked them or truly hated them. Assuming it hate made things all the more easier.

"Why, too scary?" she mocked, squeezing his hand. Her black-painted nails dug into his tan skin and he winced, putting on a brave front as he pulled back before blood spilt. She grinned—a real grin, not one of evil—and put her eyes back on the black ink.

"I find your wickedness so stunning." he whispered, making a light shade of red come onto her white cheeks.

"And I find your interruptions so irksome." she whispered back, not raising her head to look at him. Beck walked over to the bulletproof windows of his RV and gazed into the darkness of dawn. He expected to see some fat jogger bounding down the road, acting like he did it every day. He did see a jogger, running fast-paced down the street, sweat dripping from his brow. But this runner looked like he was running from something. Craning his neck to peer behind the man, Beck saw a group chasing after him. He assumed it was just some friends jogging with him—the shadows covered their faces. As the others caught up with him, the jogger fell to his feet. He started screaming in fright as the others fell on top of him…and began tearing away at his skin.

Beck's mouth dropped open in horror as they ate him. The sunrise started to shed light on the sidewalk and the group; Beck saw that those on top of the jogger had decaying flesh and blood dripping off their mouths as they wolfed down the meat off his bones.

"Holy sh—" he began but Jade's interjection of "What?" silenced him. He didn't respond; instead he looked around for weaponry, calling for Jade to put the bleeping book down and get something.

And that's where they were now.

Jade wielded the lightsaber to hack the head of several zombies heading their way. They dropped like flies with her mad killing skills to fear. Beck knew it was from the mother-daughter fencing matches Jade's mom forced her to go to. She was an expert in fencing which made her an expert in killing too. Beck never took any kind of weapon-training classes but it wasn't all that hard to swing a metal bat into their brainless skulls.

"Boy, am I glad you're a covert geek." Jade said as she slashed another zombie in two. Beck let that insult slide because it wasn't the time for arguments. After all the monsters near them were slain, they began running faster down the abandoned road.

* * *

Cat biked merrily down the sidewalk. The wee rays of morning were peeking up over the housetops of her street. She'd left a Post-It for her mother saying she was going out bicycling to get some fresh air. She had been mocked in the past for her pink, frilly bike with the white, woven basket on the handles but she didn't care. This was who she was and no one was going to stop her.

The morning had been a little different from others. When she woke up and went downstairs to where her mother would be scrambling eggs, her father reading the paper ("Sleeping Beauty has awoken!" he'd joke before handing her the funnies), and her elder brother chowing down like a trucker, she found no one awake. The scrumptious aroma of breakfast didn't flow through the air, and the lack of it made her suddenly ravenous. She called out for her parents and sibling but nobody replied to her. She walked to the fridge, figuring they were still asleep, and snatched an orange. Then she went out to her bicycle while she ate her fruit.

She raised her head up to the sky to take one good last look at the stars in advance so when they went to take a nap as the sun came up she'd have gotten her fill. Because her eyes were distracted looking up and her mouth by the juicy orange, she had no time to react before a crunch came under her pedals. She stopped immediately; if she ran over one of Miss Miller's beloved kittens, she'd never forgive herself. But when she turned to see, there was no cat of Miss Miller's—instead it was Miss Miller herself.

Cat was so dumbstruck with guilt and horror she couldn't do anything but utter a squeak. As she processed the old woman's condition, she found she had changed since Tuesday. Her face was mottled and gray, her skin rotting, and her legs mangled. Certainly that couldn't be the work of one tiny girl's bicycle, could it?

"Nice going, Little Red." complimented a familiar voice, "You saved my life." Cat looked up from her neighbor's corpse to see André looking gratefully back at her. His right cheek was stained with a red sauce-like substance and in his hand was an equally red shovel. He wiped the sweat from his brow as he ran over to her. Had he been eating French fries? It seemed as though he was a messy eater with the red goop dribbling down his cheek, and it was known how much he _loved_ ketchup.

"Let me drive." he said, coaxing her out of her seat, "You sit on the handles and tell me where we're going." Cat did as he said only because she was so startled she couldn't sort out what was going on. After he adjusted himself and handed the shovel to Cat (she moaned at the bulkiness of it), he patted the basket. She hopped atop it, and soon the wind was rushing through her hair (well, as much as it could with the helmet she was wearing) as she and André drove off. She almost fainted when the stench of dry blood plagued her nose.

* * *

"Think of a happy place, think of a happy place, think of a happy place," Robbie chanted as he backed up against the wall. It was moments ago that he found the mutilated cadaver of Mamaw. After crushing her dead again with puppet ("Yo, man, I ain't liking this!" Rex had complained as some of the blood got onto his face), he locked himself in with a bucket over his head and a meat cleaver in his hands. He thought the world would end with ice or a bomb…not some parasite that infected the world so that they'd become the living dead. He'd raided his grandma's fridge of all its contents—even the stuff he hated—and poured it into his backpack; he couldn't stay in Hollywood with zombies about. He needed to find someplace rid of them. Maybe Alaska?

"Dude, squirming here ain't gonna help us survive." Rex said. Even in the eye of an apocalypse Robbie kept his puppet near. Trusting that all his breathing friends were dead (or undead), he knew Rex would be the only one to keep him remotely sane in the insane new Earth.

"I know, I know, I know!" whispered Robbie, in dread something would hear him, "I can't help it, Rex! Facing death wasn't on today's to-do list!"

"Getting used as a bat to kill your zombiefied granny wasn't on mine, but tough monkeybutt!" Rex shouted. Robbie shushed him but Rex didn't appear to want to be quieted. What should he care, he was never alive to begin with.

Robbie's retorts to Rex's venomous slurs blocked out the sound of a door opening. They couldn't hear the footsteps following their voices into the dark kitchen. Once Robbie took a breath before retaliating, he was able to make out the sound of breaths coming from the doorway. His heart stopped as he slowly twisted his head to see two silhouettes staring back at him. He screeched as he stood, shakily handling the cleaver and dropping his best friend on the ground.

He heaved it over his shoulder, ready to strike, when his attackers flipped the light on and he found they weren't attackers at all, unless they'd become cannibalistic: they were the two Vega girls, looking harried and one waving a baton. Upon finding the screeching figure was purely the Shapiro, they sighed in relief and Tori rested the baton at her side.

"Thank Jesus!" Robbie whispered, dangling the cleaver at his side too. Tori raised one dark eyebrow.

"I thought you were Jewish." she questioned.

"I'll convert if it helps me survive," he said breathlessly, going to retrieve his puppet, who blasted even angrier remarks at being left to die. Once his dummy had shut up, Tori lifted her baton into the air and walked out to the main room. Trina followed, as did Robbie.

"Okay, so what's going on?" he asked, not daring to sit down in case they needed to make a speedy getaway. Tori shrugged while Trina just stared wide-eyed into space.

"Apparently our world is ending." said Tori, "What else is new?" Robbie didn't notice her dripping sarcasm. He walked over to her, already beginning to perspire from the panic. He'd been dropped off by his parents to help his grandmother fix the computer yet again. After walking up the countless set of flights to her apartment (not to mention the fact he was tired considering the time), it was a wonder he wasn't too out of breath to attack her before he became breakfast. The terrible thoughts about the fate of his parents had him almost sobbing but he didn't want the girls to leave him if they thought him too much trouble.

"What're we gonna do?" Trina whispered hoarsely. _My sentiments exactly,_ Robbie thought, looking at Tori for an answer. It was obvious she was the strongest—both mental- and physical-wise—of the trio so that automatically appointed her leader. The adrenaline rush still hadn't worn off so Tori's leadership skills were at their best. Robbie prayed it wouldn't die down while they were driving in the streets or battling zombies wherever they may be.

"Well, we need to stock up on supplies first." she said, "Robbie, would you mind if we took a look in your freezer?"

"Uh, actually I kinda emptied all the food into my backpack already." he said shyly, "It's all kosher, in case you're Jewish." The girls weren't but Tori appreciated Robbie's sweetness about it. Well, she appreciated it later since right then she only cared that "kosher" meant "edible".

"Good, then we won't waste time." she said, "Do you have any weapons of some sort?"

"We have knives in the kitchen." he said, then brandished his meat cleaver, "And this."

"Hopefully we won't get so close to one that we'll need a knife, but good to know." she responded, pushing past him to enter the kitchen. Robbie nervously glanced at Trina, who nevertheless stayed immobile. His obsessive crush on her passed long ago but he did think the droplets of blood on her tank top made her look feisty and cute, like a rebellious heroine in a _Terminator_ movie or something. Though, if he knew any better, Tori was the one doing the killing while Trina tried to keep her made-up face clean of zombie blood. His crush on the other Vega was small but still there, and when she returned with his grandma's entire collection of knives he thought she looked especially hot.

"Gimme the backpack." she ordered, and Robbie tossed it to her wordlessly. She put the knives in along with the food, leaving only two out. These she handed to the others, explaining that if she didn't get them with her baton, they were to slice the undead apart. Robbie hoped she'd get them all on the first try.

The three teenagers headed down the apartment house's many steps and outside where a blood-splattered SUV awaited. A few grotesque bodies were walking about but none too close. They all ran inside the car, revved up the engine, and drove off, making sure to hit any zombies they could.

No doubt about it: the apocalypse was upon them.


	2. Bring Out the Guns

**Happy fanfic birthday/anniversary to me! My fanfiction life has spanned one year! One year of writing, reading, and loving! Thank you all who are reading this for possibly reading my other stories, and I'll make sure to spread the word to others! Today my goal is to upload all multi-chaptered stories and publish a oneshot, so wish me luck! Thank you for reading, you're all great (and if you read my [possible] other uploads today, I'll post the same A/N so as not to leave anyone out)!**

Death was an ever-current event in André's life. At age six his father passed away after a year of cancer-induced silence amongst beeping machines in a rickety hospital bed. He and his mother visited him always (from a young age André was indifferent to the frightening scene of hospices), up until the point of no return. Four years following, his grandfather was one of seven victims of an unfortunate robbery downtown. With the early, scary deaths of her husband and son, André's grandmother's mind deteriorated until she started to jump at every shadow and shriek at every sound. As far as André had known, death was an easy, natural happening that he was desensitized to. However, death by zombies had never really been on that list of unsurprising occurrences.

He had known before the rest of uninfected Hollywood; when the clock struck twelve, he had a chilling premonition of doom. This left him with the incapability to rest, and so he removed himself from bed to gaze out the window. Like every morning at midnight, the streets were mostly barren, save a few cars, and the lights were all out as citizens of his quiet suburb slept. But it wasn't an average morning—no, André _knew_ something was afoot.

It wasn't like a foreboding one has in the darkness of night, chilled by nightmarish shadows crossing the halls. It was more of an instinctive urge of survival. André could feel within his beating heart something big would happen—big, and bad.

And so he prepared: he stockpiled food into his knapsack, all healthy and in abundance, changed into the comfortable, uncomplicated outfit of shorts, T-shirt, and sneakers, locked all the doors, and searched the basement for a high-quality weapon against any foe, ultimately deciding upon a shovel. When all was finished, André watched outside. As it should be at night, all was still, calm, and peaceful. A couple dogs barked, one cat meowed, and the din of a bicycle bell echoed. Nothing looked shady, but André could practically smell the mayhem that was to come.

He was not disappointed.

Out of the gloom stepped a creature far worse than any living thing. She was grayed at her skin, wrinkles a great quantity, with maroon liquid dripping from her body. Wounds were etched into her limbs, a bloody mess of tissue, muscle, and bone. Her clothes were torn, and splattered with red. As the old lady's head swiveled in search of sustenance, her dangling jaw revealing butter-yellow teeth and rotten gums.

Despite the horrible sight, and the bile that threatened to rise in his throat, André was barely shocked. This creature was recognizable: Miss Miller, the kindly old woman from down the street who would give André and Cat and other children in the neighborhood gooey butter cookies on Halloween, and whose cats were much nicer than others of the species as they purred and rubbed against your legs. Now, dear Miss Miller had befallen to some ghastly disease, morphing into a thriller movie favorite.

André was very fond of her, but no longer was she the gooey butter cookie-making, cat-loving woman down the road. She was now a lurid beast intent on devouring his flesh. If this was the apocalyptic kismet of Earth, André would go down fighting. Quietly, he crept toward the back door, his rucksack hugging his back and shovel grasped firmly. He surveyed the backyard before jumping outside, in case any other zombiefied neighbors were lurking about. None were, and André moved fast to keep it so. Soon enough, he trailed to the front of his house. Raising the shovel above his head, he tiptoed into the front yard to destroy the undead carcass. Slowly he walked, not to make a sound that would disturb the creature—life or death hung in the balance now. _Five, four, three,_ André counted, _two, one…_

He popped into view, shovel ready to swing, but nothing was there.

Nothing.

Because she was behind him.

The roar of her hungry groan was like a thousand as she pounced atop him. The stench of her rotted skin choked him as he heaved for a fresh breath. Their faces were close, the zombie's mouth at the ready to tear his skin clean off. André almost let her, but then he realized that would not be in the cards; whenever his mother would return from her Colorado business trip to find her son's mutilated body—or worse yet, his _undead_ mutilated body—she'd be completely alone. And his grandma—how could a fragile old woman such as herself ever survive another death in the zombie apocalypse?

With every ounce of strength, André catapulted the demon off him. Unprepared for this outburst, she was easily cast off onto the sidewalk. A huge _splat!_ resounded into the chilled air, and below her she left a puddle of dark, almost-black blood. André shivered as he felt her blood cascading down his own face, but didn't back down. He slammed her with his shovel, darkening it, and continued to slam down. The zombie, however, wasn't giving up either; as André raised the shovel once more, her arm swiped out for his leg. He fell, and would've been yanked forward had it not been for the bike running it over. The hand trembled, and then fell to the ground as Miss Miller died for the second time.

André immediately got up and turned to his savior. Ironically enough, it was Cat, one of Miss Miller's two favorite kids, including him. Miss Miller took to them when André was playing on a FisherPrice piano and Cat's hair was curly and mousy—now they repaid her by killing her risen corpse.

Now the two were together, wheeling down the dark, frosty road on Cat's bicycle. Cat's fingers clutched desperately onto her wicker basket as André peddled lightning fast. A small tear threatened to roll down her cheek when she didn't hear the ding-a-ling of her bell ("It'll attract attention," André had said as he mercilessly tore off the cute pink bell, "and we don't need several dozen zombies trailing us."), but it was held back by the fear boiling within her. She couldn't stop thinking up scenarios of where this apocalyptic zombie-takeover may lead; her mind always orbited around the problem of her family. Had their tardiness to breakfast been affected by zombies? Were they attacked, or had they just escaped? And if there had been an attack down the hall, had they survived, or had they been killed? Or worse…

Cat had never been engulfed by a feeling of such loneliness as powerful as this one. André was a very good friend, but he wasn't her doting mother; wasn't her strong-willed father; wasn't her goofy brother. He was merely an outside person on the border of her life, unlike her family, who were closer to the circle in which she was standing. This forlorn sensation in her tiny heart was eating away at her vivacity, devouring all the cheer like a hungry black hole.

The cool breeze continued to blow against her face, snatching her red strands of hair and pulling them away. Cat sensed André's hurried breathing from behind, and it wasn't comforting. It was comforting, however, to have someone with a little knowhow on the run with her. He was levelheaded the first moment they met that day, springing into calm, coordinated action. She hoped he'd packed enough supplies in the knapsack that kept flopping against his coat.

Out of the blue, gunshots wailed. The teenagers abruptly stopped on the side of the road, straining to hear. Mangled moans from far off resonated into the barren streets; following them were more gunshots. After three, the moaning halted.

"What's happening?" whispered Cat, trembling. She could hardly handle the squeal of a kazoo, let alone a bullet's yowl.

"I don't know," André replied, "but where there're guns, there're zombies." He undid the kickstand. "And I'd prefer not to make any new friends." A ghost of a tear rolled off Cat's lashes as André peddled away, right before a scream.

* * *

"_How_ do you have a spare Swiss army knife?" asked Beck. Jade wedged the corkscrew end deeper into the lock until a _click_ came. Then, cautiously, she opened the door.

"There's a lot you don't know 'bout me," she said, "and a lot you'll never find out." The two entered the building. It was as they left it the afternoon before: pitch-black, with crammed lockers and full trash bins. There was no evidence of a zombie attack; zero blood speckles soiled the tile floor. Everything was in place, even the papers on the bulletin board, which hadn't moved a millimeter. The smell of death wasn't present in the air—there was, although, a faint scent of dread.

Jade shoved the army knife in her back pocket and brandished Beck's lightsaber. "Now then, which way is it?" she murmured, walking down the hall. Beck followed, eyes scouring the dark corners. Where most kids would have constant fear suffocating them, Beck and Jade studied their new world like a video game—it even seemed, to Jade, amusing. Smirks were frequent as they fended off graying corpses.

Jade trailed what appeared to be the entire first floor of Hollywood Arts, turning sharply at corners and peeking in every classroom. Beck didn't understand her motive, and whenever he asked he was shushed with a glare. Soon enough, though, Jade became satisfied with one room, where she beckoned her boyfriend within.

Beck recognized the office as the guidance counselor's. He hadn't been called to it often, like Sinjin or Robbie or that weird kid that ate his toenails (wasn't that Sinjin too?), but he had been it in enough to grasp Lane's inimitable taste in interior decoration; the cocoon hanging from the ceiling resembled a large lacrosse stick, and Native American and African artifacts dotted the walls. Several clumsily crafted masks lay on his desk (where he never sat at); Jade's eyeliner-crusted gaze roved to the desk, and it narrowed.

Swiftly, she traveled over there, lightsaber in hand, and stood before it, lips pursed. Beck watched on curiously; Jade held out the lightsaber to the top of the desk, and then smacked down hard. Beck would've questioned her on this had two men's voices not screamed. Out from under the desk crawled Lane and Sikowitz, their eyes bloodshot and faces pale. Seeing the smack came from only two of their pupils, their bodies relaxed and they stood.

"Well, this is quite the fine howdy-do." Sikowitz said accusingly, brushing off his ragged clothing. Lane, grinning gratefully, stepped forward for Jade's hand. She did not give it to him, but Beck bounded up to him and led the weary man over to the couch. His girlfriend and Sikowitz followed, the latter plopping down comfily too.

"What happened to you?" Beck inquired, jogging to the mini-fridge located near Lane's lacrosse cocoon. As he removed two pint-sized water bottles from within, Lane spoke:

"Sikowitz stayed late to…um, do whatever he does, and I came at about three o' clock after a _horrible_ occurrence on my street! Seriously, you wouldn't believe it—"

"Try me," Jade mumbled sarcastically as Beck tossed the bottles to the men. Sikowitz commenced chugging down his without so much as a thank you, but Lane rolled his around in his tanned hands.

"—everywhere, they were _everywhere_," Lane continued, ignoring Jade's whispered comment completely, "Collapsing, groaning, _feeding_. My neighbors were running in the streets, some trying to take 'em down, but it wasn't working out. Everybody who didn't flee when they had the chance were attacked, and…" He decided to drink from his bottle then, no longer holding the willpower to move on. Sikowitz, finished with his, let out a belch, shifted, and wagged a finger Beck's way.

"I was safe because _I_ took precautions," he said, "The superintendant called me foolish for zombie-proofing the campus, but that was before he was torn apart by them. Yes, one goes through much rejection when they're right." Beck and Jade looked to their acting teacher, stupefied. They knew how asinine Sikowitz's actions could be, but possessing the ability to "zombie-proof" a building was downright bizarre. He had, however, proven successful—but what did he do?

"Zombies _hate_ pesticides," Sikowitz said when they asked. "Start a coughing fit, and die. So I constantly spray the grounds, and have installed pesticides to release into the air when the sprinklers go off. They also hate fire, which wasn't allowed by the school board, but I kept them coals hot in the furnace and laid them out every night. Also, that brick fence helps keep them out because it's quite difficult for those missing limbs to climb a thirteen-foot brick wall. However, if any were to make it past any of my booby-traps, a heavy load of rifles, pistols, and revolvers reside in the cellar." Jade and Beck's eyebrows sprung up, and their jaws threatened to fall open. In all their years at Hollywood Arts, they had no indication the most revered acting teacher there kept such dangerous objects hidden under the principal's nose.

The two shared a glance. As outlandish as this was, he was still smarter than they.

* * *

Jade was never labeled as normal: from a young age she showed signs of abnormality in comparison to her kindergarten classmates. She'd rip the heads and limbs off Barbie dolls but still play with them as "bomb victims"; she'd eat only the heads of her animal crackers; in an attempt to recover the fluff inside of them, she'd tear the heads of her stuffed animals apart and play with the white fuzz.

Let's just say Jade liked to decapitate things.

The desire to slice off heads wasn't one that disappeared, like the desire to tap dance or play softball. Her mother had grown worried Jade's childhood could lead to a life as a serial killer, maiming innocents. But Jade's decapitation cravings were quelled by her father's ingenious plan to give _Call of Duty_ cartridges as birthday and Christmas gifts; now her dolls remained alive, her stuffed animals stuffed, because she was away murdering zombies with her Uzi. It was all that consumed her thoughts, those mottled zombie carcasses coming at her, only to be blasted to smithereens. Eventually other things began to take root in her brain, but those zombies were present as a priority.

And now, with dozens of high-caliber guns and rifles and pistols leering back at her with their shiny metallic coats, Jade could feel the yearning bubble up again. Her fingers twitched forward, her eyes ached at the wonder, and her teeth chattered quietly in anticipation. Beck, being Jade's other (and better) half, knew of the bloodlust that was in her heart, so the second Sikowitz opened the broom closet's door he wrapped an arm around her waist.

Sikowitz gestured grandly to the artillery. "Impressive collection, no?" he mused, "My cousin Bernie owned his own gun shop before…the accident…"

"He shot himself?" Beck prodded cautiously.

"No, an elephant trampled him," Sikowitz responded, "He had a part-time job as a circus clown. Them floppy shoes weren't good for running in. Anyway, he bequeathed his stash to me, and since I knew a day such as this might come, I kept them in secure places: school basement, school broom closet, my medicine cabinet, under my bed, church basement…" Beck kept his mouth shut as Sikowitz rattled off places where he kept his weaponry, trying not to let his eyes grow in proportion whenever a shocking area was named. Soon enough Sikowitz's rambling turned somewhat constructive as he removed two dangerous-looking guns from their places under the mop and janitorial uniforms.

"Beck, a firearm that is close to my heart." said his teacher, holding out a small gun. It could fit securely into the palm of Beck's hand. Its polished wooden handle was cool on his skin, cool and calming, but what lay inside churned Beck's intestines.

Sikowitz calmly took Jade's gloved hand and placed a weapon in it Beck preferred he wouldn't. It was a sleek rifle like the kind seen in hunting magazines and commercials. It stretched long across to the wall, its wooden coat glimmering in the dim lights of the broom closet. A strap dangled from the bottom, prompting Jade, and she took the bait; she deposited herself through the loop, smirking as though this was the lacy pony she'd wanted like all little girls.

"Ooh, a rifle!" Sikowitz said, eyes sparkling, "Best of its days, might I add. Yessiree, fought well in many a-war, many won wars too. And now it'll lend its powers to fight this parasite in our own…Undead War. Yes…" Sikowitz, eyes glossy now, removed a revolver from the topmost shelf, "Yes, this'll go down in history as the Undead War, led not by generals but by denizens of the earth, fighting against the nightmares of children. My face may be next to Napoleon's one day…I'd like to think…" Even though such a war named the Undead War could end with them all dead, or undead, the couple didn't break Sikowitz's warped reveries, instead turning to one another. Beck grew agitated at the twinkle in Jade's eye; it was one that could strike fear into brave men's hearts. Slowly placing a hand over hers, Beck made his expression stony.

"Jade," he said, "remember, this isn't about killing, it's about _surviving_. You shoot when you need to shoot, and shoot only dead things. Anybody alive makes it through, and you'll stop the attack once zombies are dead again. Capeesh?" She smiled evilly, and it didn't reassure Beck in the least.

"Caposh." she replied snidely. And she turned down the hall, rifle thumping ominously against her back.

**Most of this chapter had Beck and Jade, but I hope that's alright. Speaking of which, somebody wanted to know the couples in this. So far, only the canon couple of Jade/Beck are in it, but my mind may - and most likely will - change. However, I merely ask of you to read the story despite your questions of romance, and be happy if and when your couple pops up. Thank you! And please, review before you favorite.**


	3. Preparation and Realization

**I forgot this momentarily, but I'm back on it now. Also, I may be able to write a oneshot. I want to for the Victorious Awards this coming March, just so I have a shot! If not, I promise to vote faithfully to all those deserving. Anyway, just please write and read and _vote_!**

Robbie's head bumped against the side of the van's door as Tori sped down the street. He wasn't buckled in—therefore, his body was not protected from jolts and jumps. He didn't dare ask Tori to slow down so he could put on his seatbelt. She was scary in survival mode, very scary. She got freaky in any stressful case, but this was different. Her eyes were glowing, her fists clenching, and her teeth gritting. One word could invoke some kind of frightening action on her part. He'd seen what she'd done as she swerved along the road; it didn't matter if the zombies were coming at them or not, she just drove straight into them, splattering their black-red blood all over the asphalt. He didn't want to risk any of this rage on himself.

Trina, however, wasn't as cautious. Even in the face of such danger, she kept babbling about insignificant things from not getting to play a bush in Tuesday's play because the teachers were probably all dead to listing reasons that Ted kid didn't call her back ("1. Zombie. 2. Dead. 3. Has a girlfriend!"). Such rants were completely ridiculous and, to Tori, revolting. But it kind of soothed Robbie with the semi-normality it had. It must've been a form of coping; people dealt with stress in different ways. Robbie's father used to make sock puppets and put on shows for a little Robbie to make himself feel better. Trina rambled ceaselessly about this occurence in the same style as she would an inopportune rainfall. It set Tori's teeth on edge, but to Robbie, he could handle it if that was what it took to feel better.

But it didn't make him feel better. He didn't have a method like Trina. All he had was his mind clawing for a sense of familiarity, with its claws a tad too dull to get a firm grasp. The world was overrun by zombies; his Mamaw was dead, and he didn't know the fate of his parents; Rex wasn't speaking, only shaking in his hand; and there was a possibility that every breath he took would be his last.

His eyes looked out the windshield: the early morning's sky hadn't shifted from black to blue. Instead, the stars faded into a swampy brown-orange color. No clouds dotted the sky, but then, that would conjure up some kind of hope in the hearts of those who watched it. There wasn't any hope to be had here.

"Ugh," he murmured, "It looks like someone ralphed upwards." The girls didn't react to his unpleasant comment, and he let himself hide in the backseat again as Trina continued her mindless tirade.

The car ride went on like a blur. Every time the van banged against something Robbie was pulled out of his stupor, but then he settled back in, his eyes glossing over so that the houses and cars swam together as one. He didn't even have enough will to operate Rex. Yes, he did believe Rex to be an individual rather than a puppet, but deep within he knew Rex was just a manifestation of his inner desires. He had no chance to be "the cool one", so he transmitted all that attitude into Rex so he somehow got that powerful sensation of cool. But he blocked this many times, referring to Rex as his own person as if he had come from a womb, not a factory. Sometimes, he even began to believe it himself. However, right now, nothing existed. Everything was one giant splotch on his retinas, and he preferred that to facing reality.

Eventually, Trina's voice weakened, and then petered out. An eerie quiet settled without her rambling about anything and everything. The smudge of the foreground came back into detail for Robbie without something to buzz in his ear. The screech of tires and faraway groans wasn't enough, because it wasn't things he heard routinely. He shifted in his seat, suddenly vulnerable.

"Where're we going?" he asked out of the blue. At once, something in Tori's mind snapped. Where were they going? She had escaped in a rush of adrenaline-induced confidence, her plan to just get supplies and go. But where to go? She wasn't even sure why she had driven to Robbie's grandmother's apartment in the first place. It was nearby, and she knew it was likelier he'd be there than home, but other than that, she had nothing. As the question sunk in, and the adrenaline steadily washed out of her bloodstream, she began to realize that the circumstance required a plan. They had supplies, and each other, and a getaway van, but that was barely half of what they needed to survive. They needed a plan, and they needed it fast.

"I…" she said, Trina and Robbie's eyes were trained on her, their leader. "I…don't know."

"Well, we need to go _somewhere_." Trina said, as if this too was a flimsy everyday mistake. "We can't just aimlessly drive around, smacking zombies and junk." Tori wanted to smack something other than a zombie at that moment, but she kept herself levelheaded for the time being.

"We need a place that has protection," she said, "and food. Food's a biggie." Silently the others agreed. Batons and the bumper of the van could keep the zombies away, but other killers could destroy them, like hunger. Just uttering the word _food_ created daydreams of burgers and salads and buckets of chicken in their heads. "Any suggestions?"

They had none.

Tori sighed. "Then let's keep driving."

* * *

The metal was solid ice in Beck's palm. His fingers trembled under the overbearing sight of the trigger, poised to kill. He was never easily scared; monster movies made him laugh and strange noises were dismissed as alley cats outside his RV. Even faced with this strange new world, he didn't bat an eye. Sure, it was unnatural, but what good would it do to lay down in a fetal position? He had to keep his chin held high and his reflexes at their best. But this…this thing in his hand…he couldn't bear to even look at it. A thing like this could kill a man tens of feet away from his post. Other objects like it had done so, in wars, robberies, and many other places. That was the point of the invention, the reason he had it in his hand right now. To murder, to slaughter, to kill. Even though the people they were meant to slay were already dead themselves, the thought of releasing a bullet into somebody's chest…it sickened him.

He knew Jade would feel no remorse if—when—anything happened upon the campus. The first gunshot to be fired would likely be from her rifle. When Sikowitz had assigned them posts near doors, Beck had confided in her that this whole thing was making him queasy. She had rolled her eyes and ordered him to "lighten up, they're dead brain-eaters".

"I don't know if I'll be able to do it." he said, "I know it doesn't seem like it, but I can't even shoot duck, let alone a person."

"Y'know, I'd _so_ put that on my Slap page if anybody with one was alive to ridicule you." she said, then, with a darkly serious tone, "Look, it's not as though it's anyone you know. They're just creatures—lifeless, emotionless creatures. It's not like it's gonna be André, or Tori, or Cat—"

"But what if it is?" he said, "What if _they've_ gotten to them, and they're like them too?" The next words out of Jade's mouth still chilled Beck's blood:

"Then treat them as such, and shoot them."

Beck knew that was precisely how he should treat that situation if it occurred, but the heartless way Jade had explained it was horrifying. Cat was her best friend and, even if she wasn't fond of her, Tori was in their circle, and André had been respected by her for quite some time. And if they _had_ been captured by that horrible fate, her conviction about the matter—about re-killing their friends if it came down to that—made the metal handle of the gun against his flesh feel all the more cold and bitter.

Sixteen minutes at the front entrance to the school passed, and Beck found Sikowitz hobbling toward him. The man walked with buoyancy as he always had, a silly smile on his face and his hands clasped behind his back. His bare feet slapped against the tiles, creating an echoing noise in the hallway. Beck's hand with the gun quivered; another person in this building who held a bizarre outlook on this situation.

"Well, well, Beckett, how's the job been going?" he said, removing one hand from his back to clap onto Beck's shoulder.

"Nothing so far, sir." Beck replied, edging ever so slightly away from Sikowitz's rough hand.

"Good!" Sikowitz exclaimed, "Then my booby-traps are working perfectly. Tell me, do you know how Jade is doing?"

"No, sir," Beck said, "but I haven't heard a gunshot."

"Excellent." The man's eyes glittered proudly as he crossed his arms. He gave Beck an imploring look that unnerved the younger boy. "Have you your phone?"

"My what, sir?" Beck asked, not sure he had heard him right.

"Your _phone_." he clarified, "Have you your communication device?"

"Erm, yes." Beck said, "Why?" Again Sikowitz's arm managed to grab hold of Beck, like a huggy relative's on Thanksgiving.

"I want you"—he poked Beck in the chest—"to try and contact your other friends. Even with my highly efficient anti-zombie protections, we will need more soldiers in this war, more hands. Honestly, you cannot expect the four of us here to survive on our own? We need anyone with two limbs minimum to assist us. Excluding you and Jade, we might need André, Tori, Trina, Robbie, Cat—even Robbie's weird puppet. Anything is useful." He removed his arm from Beck's shoulders. "Now, I'll take your post. You retreat to Lane's office and try to get anyone you can, and inform them. Shoo, shoo!" Beck gratefully galloped away from the entrance as Sikowitz removed a deadlier pistol from his many layers of clothes. The idea may not have been the best, but it would be something to busy Beck with other than waiting for an onslaught of green, decaying bodies to come into view. Also, he could possibly be able to contact his friends. If any were still alive, there was a chance he'd be able to find out. Even though he would possibly have to face an answering machine versus an actual voice, evidence of something terrible, that was kicked aside as the hope of finding them swirled about. Running to Lane's office, and taking out his phone, he prayed for the best—for an answer.

* * *

It would take awhile for Beck's call to reach them, but for the time being Cat and André weren't doing that badly. While they didn't have the weaponry and shelter like Jade and Beck or the escape vehicle like Robbie and the sisters, André's instinct and sensibleness had blessed them with food, supplies, and comfort for Cat. There was assurance in André's presence that all would be well. His sureness was enough to cloak Cat with safety, whether or not it was real. Even with André so courageous and composed, he wasn't indestructible. He could ward off zombies and keep them alive for as long as possible, but in the end, there was a grave possibility neither of them would have their lives in the following days.

For now, though, Cat let the fire crackle in front of her face, her eyes observing the popping embers and dancing flames with much interest. They had traveled a long way from when he had taken control of her bicycle, and now he had said the time was right to break for a rest. It being at least seven o'clock in the morning, sleep wasn't exactly an option, but the idea of staying put for an hour or two to sit and eat a little was heavenly to both. They had stopped near a gas station that was void of people. The candies, sodas, beers, gums, and other assorted snacks were untouched, until André loaded up his knapsack. Cat wondered how big it was, and how much stuff could fit into it. Her reasons were hardly believable but they kept her distracted for awhile. Her heart was still heavy without her family to wrap their arms around her, and the loss of her cute pink bell was one of the trivial things she tried to focus on.

The chilling breeze frightened her more than froze her, but that wasn't the reason André had lit the fire. It was to keep away zombies, and perhaps mask their smell with the burning embers. Either way, he kept the shovel at his side as he patrolled the station. The used matches lay at Cat's feet, and she shuffled the ashes with her toes playfully. André tried to fix her a sandwich, but she insisted on candy, so he allowed her a Hershey's if she had some turkey. Happily, she agreed. The turkey had been nibbled on, sweet enough for Cat to enjoy eating, but once she was half-done, that candy bar was shoved so far in her mouth she could barely speak. André told her to savor it, because she may not get much more candy in the future, but she didn't listen—not that he expected her to.

"Come on and eat, André!" she said, "You look starved." Indeed he was; his belly was monstrously snarling, and every rumble felt like something scratching at his insides. But an attack could come at any time, and he didn't trust Cat could swing that shovel quickly enough to fend off anything. He could just pop a few SweeTarts in to calm his stomach, and give him enough sugar to fuel his energy.

"Nah, I'm cool, Little Red," he said, waving her off, "Gotta keep watch after all."

"Can't you just sit for a sec?" she questioned, "Eat something?" André shook his head.

"Later. I have business right now." Cat let a small whimper escape her lips. André noticed, and almost took pity on her—Cat's childlike mannerisms sometimes affected her friends. Her puppy-dog faces were twice as effective, looking like a little girl's, and her whimpers, cries, laughs, and words could all influence people who imagined a six-year-old staring back. But André could resist giving in like a weak father when their lives could be taken if he took even a bite of a sandwich.

He continued surveying the streets as Cat finished up her chocolate and turkey. Once done, she entertained herself with the ground. Whenever she was bored and outside, she could always get amused by the antics of insects in the dirt. She'd watch as they zigzagged across the ground. Sometimes she'd sprinkle a little dust, a little grass over them to see their reaction. Usually they rubbed their heads, changed direction, and then went about their business. Other times she cupped her hands and made them a cage around the bug, watching it scurry around and nuzzle her palms for a crack to escape. Eventually she'd have mercy and release the little bug, who would in turn scuttle away.

But there were no bugs. No ants, no beetles, and no pill bugs. Not even a spider. The first word that ran through Cat's head was _peculiar_. You could always find at least one ant among weeds and grass. So she dug around, moved blades of dying grass aside, even resorted to calling them. None came out. As the peculiarity of this situation increased as she searched, so did the fear. Life had disappeared. They had weird undead beings crawling about the city, and the only other living person they'd found was each other. And now not even a bug could be seen in grass.

"André…" she whispered, "André…André!" Her whisper rose into a frantic almost-shriek, and André came to her aid, waving the shovel. When he saw she was in no danger, he let the shovel clang against his hip.

"What's the matter?" he asked, trying to steady his heart.

"There are no bugs." Cat said simply. André stared at her, trying to grasp her words.

"Uh…what?"

"There. Are. No. Bugs." She dragged the sentence into four parts, leisurely repeating them. André wanted to treat this effectively, but, really—no bugs? That was what had prompted her to shout his name, beckon him from his post? A lack of _bugs_?

He waited a minute, then "Yeah?" Suddenly, Cat began to cry, and she flung herself into his chest, bawling like a month-old baby. This resulted in him dropping the shovel and reluctantly soothing her. He rubbed little circles on her back, speaking words of comfort, while simultaneously assessing the roads in case of an attack. It was hard to do so with a girl in his arms, weeping. So he took a minute to lend his attention to consoling her until her sobs lessened.

"Hey…hey, it'll be okay." he said, "You'll find a…a bug soon. They're just hiding…I guess."

"Or dead." she muttered. The tone she used struck André, and he realized it wasn't just bugs she was referring to. Tori's face flashed across his mind, followed soon by his best friends Robbie and Beck, and then acquaintances like Jade and even Trina. Sinjin managed to squeeze into the party too. All of them…they could be dead. Robbie, who he gave advice to…Beck, who he laughed with…Tori, who he sang to. Dead. They could be dead.

"Or not." he muttered in return. Because that was an option too. They could just be someplace else, defending themselves like he and Cat were. Even if they were separated, it didn't necessarily mean they were gone. He tried to hold onto this fact, wanting it to be true. He didn't want to believe everybody he loved had been cursed with this appalling event. He knew that some may've died, that some may've morphed into killers, but then some may've survived. Holding onto that possibility would keep him sane. He hoped.

"I want a sign." Cat whispered. Her hands, balled into fists, clutched his T-shirt. He swore she had ripped a couple chest hairs in the process from the small sensation of pain he felt when she collided with him. "A sign they are alive. That some of them are alive. Robbie…Jade…Beck…any of them. Just…just one sign."

That sign would come. But not for awhile.

* * *

"_Look at this stuff, isn't it neat? Wouldn't you think my collection's complete? Wouldn't you think I'm the girl—the girl who has everything?_" Jade's hushed singing was all she heard besides the whistling of the wind. To her, the feel of the rifle was calming, and she barely flinched when it bumped against her back. It wasn't even in her immediate thoughts as she paced along the threshold leading to the outdoor cafeteria, humming Disney tunes (yeesh, Cat much?). It was, frankly, boring. Nothing was in sight or jumping out of nowhere. It was her and the rifle alone. She knew that a zombie ambush in this, their Safe Zone, wouldn't be a good thing, but darn it if she didn't want to just pull that trigger and blast a few. She recalled her earlier conversation with Beck, and her eyes rolled while her lips cricked upward. He used to be so laidback; but now he revealed he was sensitive too. Chick flick babes may want that, but she could deal without the "compassion". She preferred stony-faced, careless guys with windswept hair and biceps the size of her fist. While Beck was no bodybuilder, he was handsome (especially with that hair), and apathetic—until today.

"_What's a fire and why does it—what's the word?—burn?_" she continued, "_When's it my turn? Wouldn't I love—love to explore that shore up above!_" She wandered away from her post, out onto the campus, still quietly singing. It was a wasteland with burrito wrappers and empty soda cans floating in the gust of wind. The scraped blue tables by now would've had students sitting on them, talking and eating breakfast. There'd be hundreds of radios and PearPods on them as they blasted music for kids to dance. Her eyes drifted to the table where they sat—her, Beck, André, Cat, Robbie, Rex, even Tori. Her fingernails tapped against the wood, stroking the tabletop. Her hand went over a yellowish-brown spot, the remains of a meat stain that dripped off Beck's hamburger. Back when all was normal…

Jade shook her head. She had to snap out of this. There weren't going to be those moments anymore. Now they just had to man their guns and try to live on the nasty cafeteria food leftover from the day before. She went over to the van at the thought, peering inside at the contents. It was dark in there; the freezers were locked tight, and the fryers were damp with grease, and perhaps mold. She craned her neck to further search, but the window was much too high. She traveled to the backside of the van, and saw the door ajar. She surveyed the inside swiftly, in case something shriveled and hungry had opened it, but there was nothing—so she entered.

The locks on the fridge and freezer weren't all that tight; or even locked. With one jiggle they were off and she could get in. Opening the doors, she found endless amounts of cold food. They weren't the healthiest choices—preheated burritos, fries, frozen burger patties, ice cream, popsicles, and veggies for the herbivores (as Jade called them)—but if they were to survive for a few months, they'd have to eat what they were given. She kept this lodged in the back of her brain for when she next met up with Beck.

She reached for one of the carrots, frigid with a thin ice layer, when she heard the long, grueling moans. Instantly the rifle's strap burned against her back as she turned it to her front, hands on the trigger and the snout, ready to shoot. She aimed the nozzle outside the tiny window, looking out over the property. In the distance, several creatures stumbled. She could hardly make out their appearances, but she was sure they were what she had suspected. The bullets whizzed fast and furiously, hitting each target with expert precision. The attackers fell down one by one—except for three. There were three that dodged the bullets with quick, humanlike reflexes, scrambling on their bellies. Jade tried to gun them down, but they were too speedy to get at. They had to be alive still.

Jade hesitated, waiting for the trespassers to move. Without the blitzkrieg of bullets, they braved the front. They were squirrelly at first, bouncing and falling as they neared the campus, but once they were positive they weren't at risk, they moved faster and more efficiently. They passed through the gate surrounding the school. The shadows weren't hiding their faces as much now, but Jade still couldn't recognize them. She did see they were alive, maybe not well, but she kept the rifle positioned in case some threat other than zombies arrived.

Eventually they passed onto the cracked pavement with the blue tables and pillars of the building. Jade squinted as the shadows gradually disappeared from their faces. What she saw tempted her to pull that trigger; they weren't zombies or cannibals or gun-toting dunderheads, but they were just as bad. They were dorks that had roamed the halls of Hollywood Arts many times. Jade couldn't remember their names except for the one in the center with his glasses and curly hair the shade of cat litter: Sinjin. He and his Special Effects Crew weirdo friends were head to toe in dust, with blood specks all over their clothing. They didn't have any supplies or weapons; just the clothes on their backs and the fear in their hearts.

Sinjin trembled as he collapsed onto one of the table's benches. His friends (let's call them Ron and Harry) stood beside him, looking haggard. One had bright, deer-in-headlights eyes with dark red hair; the other had an ugly bowl-cut with bangs that fell over his eyes and a smile that could give someone cancer, it was so disturbing. They _did_ look like two nerdy wizards, except less attractive than the movie actors.

Jade had to give them mercy, in spite of her desire to blast them into oblivion just to get them away. She prayed Beck would come to her aid, or these freaks would magically vanish like some hallucination brought on by the panic, but of course neither was possible. She slung the rifle over to her back again, and leaned her head out the window to shout at them.


End file.
